Israel is demolishing Gaza City’s high-rise towers,
flattening entire blocks that once housed thousands of people.
— Aljazeera, September 12, 2025
Pancakes are flat, and driveways, and dimes.
Only a nice flat rock is good for skipping on a lake.
I grew up in the flatlands, corn and soybeans, soil rich and black.
My Dad, once and always a Marine, sported a flattop haircut.
I’ve got a photo, old school, of a little girl, totally flat affect. Now she’s my wife
gives me that flat look sometimes.
I used to root for Joe Frazier
he knocked Muhammad Ali flat.
Smoking Joe was the champ
until he got nothing but flattened
by big George Foreman.
But a city
tall buildings, schools and playgrounds, hospitals and
restaurants, fertile ground of olives trees, eggplants,
tomatoes, 5,000 years of history, ancient mosques, churches.
Not a city.
Images stream on my phone.
The green of parks, gardens, trees
grayed under concrete dust.
Schools awaiting imaginations yet to be imagined
intentionally imploded.
Walls containing empty spaces once filled
by laughter, tears, dreams crumpled
in plumes of smoke.
Treasures someone longs to return to:
cooking pans, stirring spoons, favorite chairs,
a dusty photo–of a man with a large moustache
smiling, a baby in his arms.